


Three Times Francis Helps Mary up

by orphan_account



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M, Young!Mary, young!francis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and one time he isn't there to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Francis Helps Mary up

**Author's Note:**

> I am in serious need of help and a new episode of Reign.

She falls when they meet for the first time.

She is six, dressed in an itchy and tight gown she’s never worn before. Her mother told her she had to be on her best behavior because she was going to meet the King and Queen of France with their son that day. Mary vaguely knew she would one day marry the other boy but her concept of marriage was very slim. They meet on the shore and as she steps off the boat her governess is behind her, coaxing her forward.

Francis is a small boy, but he is still taller than her. He has messy blond curls that flicker in the wind and his blue eyes are wide as he takes in his betrothed. He still has some baby fat in his cheeks, making him look innocent and scared. His clothes tell otherwise, though. They look like a true king’s clothes but smaller. He smiles faintly at her as she walks up. Her mother told her not to look down, keep her eyes up and chin held high.

Apparently, this is Mary’s quite literal downfall because her dainty slippers catch on a rock and she goes tumbling into the dirt, gown and all. Her face burns at the silence around her. She hears her governess cough, subtly telling her to get up. Mary purses her lips, closes her eyes and prepares to stand but when she opens them, there is a hand outstretched in front of her. The boy prince is standing in front of her, looking down at her with his hand offered. Mary beams gratefully at him and accepts it. She straightens, like a true queen and brushes the dirt off regally. Francis’ arm is looped through hers and he escorts her to the carriage where a page helps her up into the compartment.

She grins at Francis from her seat across from him.

 

 

 

They are running around the grounds the second time she falls.

Francis is chasing her, something about stealing his figure of a soldier. Mary is giggling loudly, dodging trees and roots, turning back ever so often to see Francis running towards her. Her dress is difficult to run in, but she manages, pulling up the skirts to make it easier. She wonders what her mother would say if she saw her like this. She would no doubt be unhappy, to say in the least. Francis is close to catching up, getting closer with his longer strides. Mary pushes on, continuing to laugh.

Her skirt turns out to be her undoing. It catches on a branch and she trips over a root at the same time, tumbling to the ground. She hurtles to the ground, splaying her hands out to catch herself. Francis finally catches up, bending next to her.

“Mary!” he says worriedly. “Are you all right?”

 “My hands,” she says, showing him her now bloodied palms.

“You’ll have scars now!” he says excitedly, trying to cheer her up. Mary cracks a small smile and Francis puts out his hand.

“You’ll get all bloody though,” she says, looking at it.

“I don’t care.” He shrugs, adding, “We’ll match.”

 

 

 

The third time is when they are older and supposed to be with their tutor.

Instead, she and Francis are running as fast as their legs can carry them through the corridors, her governess trailing behind them. Their governess’ heart nearly gave way when she saw the state Francis and Mary left Mary’s room in.

“Feathers everywhere! Pillows ripped! It’s a disaster,” she yells after them. Mary turns her head for a split second, giggling at the image of their plump governess struggling to catch up.

“Follow me!” Francis says, grabbing Mary’s hand and pulling her down another hallway. They grasp hands tightly as they dodge servants and guards, twisting their way through the castle.

“I think we’ve lost her!” Francis says, grinning widely. When Mary doesn’t respond, he turns around. Mary is sprawled on the floor beside a fallen suit of armor. His eyes widen before running back down the corridor to her.

“Are you all right?” he asks, kneeling beside her. She nods, brushing it off stubbornly,

“I’m fine,” she says and attempts to get up. Francis offers a hand to her, and she reluctantly takes it, standing.

“It’s all right to depend on someone, you know,” he says as she brushes her hands against her dress. Francis frowns then looks at his hands, seeing a red smear on them. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh, I guess I am,” she says, frowning and looking at her dress. “I must have cut myself when I collided with the armor.”

And you can show hurt too,” he adds, smiling reassuringly. Mary ignores him.

“ _Francis_!” Catherine’s sharp voice echoes down the hall and the two children look up to see her bustling towards them, a fleet of guards following her, along with their governess. “My darling, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mother,” he says, rolling his eyes as Catherine strokes his face. “It’s Mary who needs help.”

“But the blood on your hands…”

“It’s Mary’s. I only helped her get up.”

“Take them both to the infirmary,” she orders the guards. “Be gentle with my son.” 

“Mother, I’m fine! It’s Mary!” he says, pulling away from Catherine.

“No matter, take them both.” The guards nod, guiding the children down the hall. Catherine watches as they retreat, seeing Francis grab Mary’s hands. The young girl looks at him, her eyes flickering to his hand. Smiling slightly, she takes it and they walk down the hall together, hand-in-hand. 

Catherine frowns.

 

 

 

The one time she’d needs him to be there, he isn’t.

She and Bash are staying over night in an inn. She tells the innkeeper and his wife they are brother and sister, traveling to meet her husband. She would have to either be married to Bash or be his sister in order for their lie to be believable. It was still dangerous for an unmarried woman to traveling, even with her brother, so she invented a husband and a name and a life for them. Her name is Aylee, and she is seventeen years old, married to a blacksmith and living in France. Bash remains Sebastian because he can, while Mary pretends to be something she is not, but wants so desperately to be.

She doesn’t know how long they will last like this. It’s only a matter of time until French soldiers come searching for the Queen of Scotland and the bastard son of France. Another innkeeper has already questioned their soft hands, giving away their rich upbringing. She wears gloves to be safe from now on.

She is packing her bag for the ride ahead when Bash hurtles through the door.

“We need to leave,” he says, panting hard. Mary springs up from her chair, throwing aside the book. “French soldiers are here. We’ve been compromised.”

Mary nods and follows Bash out of the room, down the stairs and into the stables. Bash suddenly halts, putting a finger to his mouth. Mary peers around the corner and sees three French soldiers questioning the stableboy.

“We need to go on foot,” says Mary and Bash agrees. They quietly leave the stables and begin to run into the forest once they are out of earshot with the soldiers. Mary is still wearing her riding clothes, which makes it easier to run, but Bash remains ahead of her, his long stride outmatching hers. Her heart is hammering in her chest, praying to God that the soldiers don’t follow them once the stable boy gives them away inadvertently. She can feel the blood pumping through her veins and hopes she can last long enough to get away.

“We’ve nearly lost them,” Bash says, turning back. “We don’t even know if they’ve left the inn yet and they don’t know what direction we’ve gone in." 

In her minds eye, she pictures Francis running before her, down the halls in the castle.

_“I think we’ve lost her!” he crows excitedly and Mary grins back at him. She opens her mouth to respond, but as she turns a corner, she runs head on into a suit of armor. It comes crashing down, Mary with it. The sword it holds slices through her palm and she nearly cries out to Francis._

_But Francis is in front of her, offering a hand, worriedly lines in his face. She takes his hand, though she doesn’t want to. She is eleven years old, and she doesn’t need his help, thank you very much. But her ankle does hurt and she lets Francis help her up_.

 “Mary!” Bash’s voice wakes her from her memory and Mary realizes she is on the ground, having tripped over a root in the ground. Bash runs towards her, holding his hand out to her. She looks up at him, with his grey-blue eyes and black hair and wishes he had bluer eyes and blond curls. She shakes her head, standing up herself. She doesn’t need Bash’s help and she has no choice but to pick her self up and hope the pangs that come with her memories subside.


End file.
